


This now, semantics later

by Lenore



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale, Chains, Community: kink_bingo, Dildos, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, First Time, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Make Them Do It, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Porn, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Stiles Stilinski, Top Vernon Boyd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What's wrong with Derek?" Then a possibility occurs to him, because he's Googled everything the Internet has to offer about werewolves, and the results have included some profoundly embarrassing erotic fiction. "Oh my God, do you think he could be in heat?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	This now, semantics later

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the "double penetration" square of my Kink Bingo card. Thank you to my dear [](http://no-detective.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://no-detective.livejournal.com/)**no_detective** for beta reading. There is some dubious consent in here of the "werewolf biology made them do it" variety.

Stiles doesn't make a habit of lying to himself. In fact, his self-awareness is something of a curse. But there are just a few things he feels the need to pretend: That he doesn't grab at any supernatural excuse to haul ass back home from college, putting more miles on the Jeep than it can really afford. That when he takes the exit off the highway for Beacon Hills his first thought is never _Derek!_ instead of the far more appropriate _Dad!_ or _Scott!_. That turning onto the familiar road leading up to the Hale House never gives him a leaping, fluttering feeling like he's got wings flapping in his chest.

He spends a lot of time with werewolves, so he's learned to pretend very, _very_ hard. By the time he parks in a frozen patch of bare dirt in Derek's excuse for a front yard, his heartbeat is perfectly even, and hopefully he doesn't smell too much like _I missed you_.

Scott opens the door before Stiles's sneakers hit the first step. "You didn't have to come home early for this."

"Pretty sure I did, buddy," Stiles says, giving him a hug. "You don't call me up asking if there are spiders than can eat people for no reason, and Peter's away, and Lydia doesn't get back from New Haven until next week."

"I can do research," Scott grumbles.

"Of course you can," Stiles says to mollify him. "Anyway, I'm done with finals. No reason to linger."

Unless going to the biggest party of the semester counts as a reason, Stiles silently caveats.

"Stilinski!" Erica squeals and hefts him into the air, the werewolf version of a hug, making Stiles's ribs protest.

"Hey, Erica," he manages, once she's set him down and he can breathe again.

"We are seriously glad to see you," she tells him.

"I can research," Scott insists, resentfully.

Erica rolls her eyes at him. "No, you can't."

"Not that your way with Google is the only reason we're glad you're here," Isaac says, giving Stiles a much gentler hug.

Boyd bumps fists with him. "Stiles."

Stiles looks around, and he's pretty sure he doesn't sound too eager when he asks, "Where's Derek?" He can only hope he doesn't _smell_ eager.

"He's off doing his thing," Erica says, as if this is an explanation.

Stiles makes a _what?_ face, inviting details.

"A couple of times a year, Derek does this decision-making exercise with us," Isaac says. "He goes off for a few days, and we deal with whatever comes up, and then when Derek comes back, we go over what we did, and he critiques us."

"That's seriously a thing?" Stiles asks Scott, dubiously.

Scott shrugs.

"Okay, but what if Derek has gone off on one of these little power trips of his when rogue hunters attack or, oh, say, _there's a man-eating spider on the loose_?" Stiles's voice rises with exasperation.

 _Only_ exasperation. There's absolutely no disappointment involved here. At all.

"It's cool, Stiles," Boyd tells him. "Derek's close by. There's an old cabin on the other side of the Hale property. If the pack were in trouble, he'd sense it. And he trusts us to deal with things like man-eating spiders." He grins. "That's why we called you."

"I haven't found much," Stiles has to admit. "In Lakota Sioux belief, there's Iktomi, a spider spirit. It's a trickster god, and it can be mischievous, but there's no mention of it snacking on people. There are tons of results for that episode of _Supernatural_ , but I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that the whole 'have to behead it to kill it' thing isn't based on actual facts."

"That's it?" Scott asks, eyes wide with disbelief.

Stiles makes a face at him. " _Yes_. That's it. Which is exactly why Derek's stupid decision-making exercise is," he waves his hand, "stupid. We need him here. Maybe he knows something. Where's the cabin? I'm going to get him."

Looks travel around the group, some sort of silent communication. Apparently Boyd gets elected the spokesman. "He ordered us to stay away. The whole point is for us to work on being more independent."

"Yeah, well, he didn't order me." Stiles makes a face at the word. "He can play mind games with you guys when we don't have some cousin of Aragog wandering around out there."

Boyd hesitates. "Okay, but I'm coming with you." _So Derek doesn't kill you_ is very much implied.

They set off along a path through the woods, the ground hard with frost, a thick covering of pine needles in places. Boyd leads the way, setting a human-friendly pace because he's cool that way, unlike Derek, who always makes Stiles run to keep up with him.

Not that everything is about Derek.

The cabin turns out to be more of a shack than anything else, a slapped together mess of rough boards and rusted nails, hardly a surprise considering that Derek lives in a burned-out wreck of a house. The door is tucked along the side, and Stiles starts around the corner only to realize that Boyd has stopped in his tracks.

Stiles darts a confused look back at him. "What?"

"Don't—we shouldn't—"

Then Stiles hears it too, even with his puny human ears, pained groans coming from inside and what might even be whimpers. "Derek!"

"No, Stiles—" Boyd reaches out to catch his arm.

But Stiles won't be held back. Derek kept up that stoic routine of his even when he was poisoned with wolfsbane and demanding that Stiles cut off his arm. It's fucking terrifying trying to imagine what could make him sound like—

Stiles stops in his own tracks just inside the door. He feels his mouth drop open, but he can't do anything about it. Because this isn't like the wolfsbane incident. Not even a little bit.

There's nothing in the room but a Spartan-looking bed with a heavy metal frame and a thin, bare mattress. And Derek. Derek who is naked and sweat-slick and hard, chained by one wrist to the headboard, body writhing, legs flung apart, hand working between his thighs and—is that—yes, that's definitely a dildo he's fucking himself with.

It's as if Stiles has stumbled into his most secret, wake-up-hard-in-the-middle-of-the-night fantasy, and for just a split second, he honestly thinks he must be hallucinating. Then his brain turns back on, and the heat rises in his cheeks, and he opens his mouth to babble apologies, and, wow, he really needs to get the hell out of there and leave Derek to—

Another noise comes spilling out of Derek, a really fucking _distressed_ sound, and Stiles sees what he should have noticed before, what he would have picked up on immediately if Derek weren't so—but now that Stiles is thinking with his brain again, he sees that Derek is glassy-eyed and feverish-looking and shaking, not like someone who's really getting off on what he's doing, but like an addict going through withdrawal. He hasn't even realized that he's not alone, as if his werewolf senses are on the fritz, or maybe he's just way too distracted to care.

Derek looks _helpless_ , and that's as wrong as a thing can be, like those times after his mom died when Stiles would hear his dad crying in the middle of the night when he thought Stiles was asleep, great wracking sobs with so much pain packed into them. Stiles would listen, curled up tight in a fetal ball, fucking terrified, because his father was the strongest person he knew and he sounded like he was coming apart at the seams.

Not that Stiles needs to be thinking about his dad right now. That is many years of therapy just waiting to happen.

Stiles whispers to Boyd, who has materialized at his side, "What's wrong with Derek?" Then a possibility occurs to him, because he's Googled everything the Internet has to offer about werewolves, and the results have included some profoundly embarrassing erotic fiction. "Oh my God, do you think he could be in heat?"

"He never mentioned anything about it," Boyd says, with a pinch between his eyes.

Stiles seriously doubts this rules out the possibility since Derek does have a way of not mentioning things that other people _really need to know_.

"It does kind of seem like it, though," Boyd says, slowly, thoughtfully.

Derek fixes a look on him, almost lucid for a moment, and Boyd goes instantly alert, watching Derek carefully, more of that silent communication that Stiles is really beginning to find annoying.

Then Boyd starts to take off his clothes.

For a moment, Stiles can't say anything at all, and there's maybe just a bit of a squeak in his voice when he does manage to ask, "Um, _what_?"

Stiles may also be staring a little as Boyd shucks his jeans and nonchalantly kicks them away. Okay, staring a lot. Boyd is hot. Stiles has always been aware of that in a theoretical way. Now he has the actual, naked evidence right in front of him.

"Derek needs to get fucked," Boyd says in his usual matter-of-fact fashion.

Stiles stares and wonders if Boyd might possibly be speaking a different language. "But—why—"

"Derek does this, goes off by himself, I'm guessing, because he doesn't want to ask anyone in the pack to help him. Because he thinks that would be an abuse of his alpha power. But I'm volunteering, so—" He shrugs and moves over to the bed frame.

Derek makes an eager, hopeful noise when Boyd locates the key that's been tossed onto the floor and starts to unlock the chain.

"Is that—are you sure you should—" Derek doesn't _look_ like a threat; actually he looks desperate and out of it and weak as a kitten, but he's still an alpha werewolf.

An alpha werewolf who could tear them both limb from limb if he really wanted to.

"The chains wouldn't hold him if he wanted to be free. They're just a reminder not to leave here." Boyd guides Derek up from the bed and down onto the floor, onto his hands and knees. Derek goes willingly, his body pliant. He spreads his thighs wide and makes a low keening in the back of his throat.

Begging. That's what Derek is doing. God.

Boyd kneels beside Derek, and Derek lets out a hoarse cry, and that's when Stiles realizes what's happening. Boyd is playing with the dildo, and Derek—well, Derek _likes_ it.

Stiles's lungs feel like they're burning, like he doesn't actually remember how to breathe. There's a rush of heat all through his body, and no one's even touching him. Boyd's expression is serious, focused, a hand resting lightly on Derek's hip, biceps flexing as he works the dildo deep. Derek has his eyes squeezed tightly closed, and he's panting heavily, and his body is demanding more with every frantic lunge of his hips.

A ridiculous stab of guilt catches Stiles in the belly, as if he's somehow made this happen with the power of his mind. Possibly he might have read some of those erotic stories about werewolves more than once. Possibly he might have imagined Derek like this once or twice or, okay, kind of a lot.

 _You are not that powerful, you are not that powerful_ , he has to keep reminding himself.

The least he can do is turn away—Boyd's his friend, and Derek's his—something, and he really shouldn't—but. Why do werewolves have to be so fucking gorgeous? Oh God, has there ever been anything hotter than Derek pushing back against that dildo, fucking himself on it?

Actually, the answer to that turns out to be "yes" when Boyd pulls out the dildo and tosses it away, moves around to kneel behind Derek and—Stiles is the one who gasps out loud when Boyd pushes inside Derek.

Derek's head snaps up at the sound, and he fastens his gaze on Stiles, the look in his eyes wild and predatory, his nostrils flaring as he scents the air. Stiles can only imagine how he must smell. He's been hard since his first glimpse of Derek's bare skin.

"Stiles," Derek says, voice rough and strained. Then Boyd fucks into him, and his back arches, and he makes a noise that's not even remotely civilized, his sharp, white teeth sinking into his own lip.

There aren't enough adjectives to describe how insanely sexy that is, and Stiles really shouldn't be here, but he can't—he wants—

Stiles can feel his mouth moving, so it's entirely possible he's saying all this out loud. Derek's gaze is fastened on him, eyes alpha red, his face even more stark than usual, etched with want.

" _Stiles_ ," he says again, and it would sound like an order if it weren't so painfully needy.

"He wants you in his mouth," Boyd translates.

For a moment, Stiles really thinks he's going to come in pants, as if he's still the same virginal sixteen year old he was when he met Derek.

Boyd grips Derek tightly by the hips and fucks him even harder. Derek's body is a taut line of need, and he shoves back into every thrust, raw moans torn from his throat, begging and _taking it_ like he can't get enough.

A part of Stiles—the bad, wrong, inexcusable part—wants to say, "Oh, hell yes," and drop to his knees and push his hard cock against Derek's lips.

The better part of his nature, though, that part feels the need to _talk_. "Not that I don't want to, because—I'd have to be dead not to want to. But you're out of your mind, and _you_ don't really want this. Don't want me. I mean, you never have. And I don't want to take advantage of you, and I really don't want you to hate me forever." He takes a breath. "And we don't have condoms."

"He can't give you anything, and you can't give him anything," Boyd helpfully points out.

"Stiles, get over here," Derek snaps, and then moans, loud and even more wanton than before, as if Boyd is hitting a spot that feels extra good.

In the four years they've known each other, Stiles has pictured many, _many_ sexy scenarios starring Derek, and not one of them was even remotely like this. Stiles's imagination is far less surreal than his actual life. He strips off his clothes and immediately starts to shiver. Only werewolves could think sex in an unheated cabin in December is a good idea.

"Don't hate me, please don't hate me," he says, like a mantra, as he kneels in front of Derek.

Derek whines until Stiles scoots close enough for him to press his face against the crease of Stiles's thigh and breathe him in with big, greedy gulps. He's radiating heat like a furnace, even more than normal for a super-charged werewolf metabolism, and Stiles is going to ask about that when suddenly there's tongue everywhere, long, hot swipes along the insides of his thighs, over his balls, up and down the length of his erection.

Stiles _isn't_ sixteen anymore, and college has been awesome for his sex life, so it really should take more than a messy, desperate blowjob to reduce him to a puddle on the floor. But no one has ever gone down on him like this, with such enthusiasm, humming under his breath as if Stiles tastes good, as if he can't get enough. And, oh God, it's _Derek_ doing that.

Derek's satisfied hums soon take on a more demanding tone. This time, Stiles doesn't need Boyd to tell him what that means. Derek wants Stiles to fuck his mouth. _God_. Stiles touches his shoulder, lightly, and when Derek makes an encouraging noise, Stiles strokes his hand up Derek's neck and slides his fingers into his hair and cants his hips, thrusting into Derek's mouth, tentatively at first, and then more urgently when Derek lets out a low growl of satisfaction.

"God, Derek, you're so—you feel so—" Stiles babbles, and Boyd starts to fuck Derek harder, and the noises Derek makes around Stiles's cock—Stiles honestly never imagined he could sound like that.

Stiles comes, a lot sooner than he wants to, with a roaring in his head that he only realizes afterward is the sound of Boyd coming too.

Derek slumps on the floor, shoulders working with his breath; there's wetness on his belly and on the floor, but he's still hard, and he moans, a little pitifully.

"Hey." Stiles run a hand soothingly through Derek's hair, down his neck and over his back. "You're okay. We've got you."

"Please," Derek says through gritted teeth, and the word looks like it hurts him as much as—whatever this is.

"Come on." Stiles takes him by the elbow to guide him back toward the bed, and Boyd helps, since Derek really doesn't look like he can support his own weight right now.

They get Derek onto his back, and Stiles crawls up between his spread thighs. Derek makes a pleased noise and lifts his hips, offering himself, and, oh fuck, that's just—not that Stiles can take him up on it, not just yet. He may be in his sexual prime, but there is still such a thing as a refractory period.

Stiles _can_ make Derek feel good, though, can help take the pressure off. He rubs his hand up and down Derek's thigh and presses a kiss to his belly, thumbing at the crease between Derek's leg and body.

"Stiles," Derek says, raggedly. "You don't have to—"

Stiles kisses his stomach again, holding Derek's gaze. He's wanted to do this _for years_ , has jerked off to thoughts of it, furtive and sticky and just impossibly turned on. Derek must be able to read that in Stiles's expression, or enough of it anyway, because he lets the noble bullshit go and reaches for Stiles, fingers sliding over his hair. Stiles is only too happy to bend his head.

The amount of time Stiles has spent thinking about Derek's dick, imagining it—well, it's been _a lot_ , starting before he even knew what to do with a dick. Happily, that's no longer a problem, and he gets his mouth on the shaft and his hand curled around the base and his tongue going, and then _he's_ humming happily. This is, quite literally, a dream come true.

A muffled groan comes out of Derek, and Stiles flicks his gaze up, and Derek is watching him with feverish eyes, a little wild and very hungry. Boyd brushes the sweat-dark hair back from Derek's forehead, and Stiles realizes with a guilty start that he'd kind of forgotten that Boyd was even there.

Derek turns his head to nuzzle against Boyd's thigh, craning his neck. Boyd obliges by scooting closer, and, holy shit, Stiles is _totally_ aware of Boyd's presence now. Boyd sinks his fingers into Derek's hair and lazily fucks his mouth. Derek moans and opens wider and takes Boyd's cock deeper. Stiles moans too and rubs himself against the mattress, leaving yet another stain on it.

Stiles's jaw is aching by the time Derek comes, and Derek is _still_ hard afterward. He makes a helpless noise and opens his legs wider, and, oh hell yes, Stiles is ready now. He scoots up the bed, making a place for himself between Derek's thighs.

"You're so—" Stiles say softly, and he dips his head to lick at Derek's nipple.

Derek skims his fingers over Stiles's head, rubbing lightly. His mouth is still stretched wide around Boyd's cock, spit and precome dripping from his chin, throat working as he sucks. Stiles has to grab his own cock and squeeze, eyes tightly shut for a moment, to keep this party from being over too soon.

Derek spreads his legs more insistently, demanding as ever, and Stiles slurs out, "Yeah, yeah, I'm—" Derek's hole is wet when Stiles probes with his fingers, still open from when Boyd was inside him, and Stiles guides his cock and pushes and, "Fuck!"

Boyd comes with a sharp cry, eyes flashing yellow, his claws scoring the cabin wall. Stiles goes still and pulls in a shaky breath. If he lasts longer than five seconds inside Derek, it's going to be a miracle.

Derek scowls up at him, not pleased that Stiles has stopped. He hooks a leg around Stiles's waist, heel digging into Stiles's back, demanding to be fucked _right now_. He may be drugged half out of his mind on werewolf hormones, but he's still Derek.

"Okay, okay." Stiles thrusts, and then they're both groaning out loud. "Oh God." Derek feels so hot and tight and _good_. Fuck, fuck.

Derek wraps his legs around Stiles's waist, so Stiles can fuck him deeper, and Stiles must be hitting the right spot, because Derek arcs up from the bed, eyes wide and flashing red.

"Derek," Stiles keeps murmuring.

He leans up and fumbles his mouth onto Derek's, not sure if this is allowed, but if this is his only chance for a kiss, he's taking it. Derek's breath comes hot and quick against Stiles's lips, and Derek opens his mouth beneath Stiles's, and sucks on Stiles's tongue, and moans, deep and low, almost a growl. Kissing is apparently very much allowed.

Stiles does it some more, and he fucks harder, faster. Derek kisses back, messy and desperate, and tightens his legs around Stiles's waist, urging him on. He grips Stiles by the shoulders, fingers digging in, leaving bruises that will make Stiles hard whenever he thinks about how they got there.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and says in a rough voice, his throat starting to go hoarse, "Come on, Derek. Come on!" He wants to last long enough for—but oh God. "You really need to come now!"

Derek arches up sharply and lets out what can only be described as a howl, and Stiles feels the hot splash against his stomach, feels Derek's body clenching around him. Stiles's last hazy thought is that this is the most obliging Derek has ever been, and then he's just _gone_.

It takes a while after he's come to make himself move, and even once he's rolled off of Derek, all he can really do is lie there panting. Boyd leans against the headboard, watching over them, the look on his face both knowing and protective. Stiles manages to flop his head around, so he can check on Derek. His cock is soft at last, the heat apparently over, which is good, because Derek looks absolutely wrecked, his body limp and trembling.

Stiles scoots nearer, and Boyd stretches out on the other side, their bodies pressed close against Derek's, as if they're trying to hold him together.

It doesn't take long for Stiles to fall asleep. When he wakes up again, the shadows are in different places, as if time has passed. His head is resting on Derek's shoulder, his arm flung across Derek's waist. He yawns and rubs his eyes and looks around. Boyd is standing at the side of the bed, buttoning up his shirt.

"What's going on?" Stiles asks blearily.

"I'm going to go check in with the others," Boyd tells him.

"Oh." Right. That whole deadly spider-creature thing.

Stiles unconsciously tightens his hold on Derek. He cares about saving the unsuspecting populace from snacky arachnids, he really does, but he doesn't want to leave Derek.

Boyd gives him an understanding look. "You should stay here and take care of him."

"Okay. Yeah," Stiles says quickly, but then second-guesses himself. "Unless—do you think another werewolf would be more help? I mean, you could stay. I could go." His mouth turns down unhappily at the thought, but he'll do it, if that's what's better for Derek.

Boyd just smiles. "I'm pretty sure he'll prefer it this way."

Stiles nods, and once Boyd has gone, he settles his head on Derek's shoulder again, enjoying the closeness while it lasts. After a while, he feels Derek's breathing change and Derek's arm reflexively curls around Stiles. Then Derek jolts the rest of the way awake and his hand falls away from Stiles's shoulder.

"Is this when you start hating me?" Stiles asks in a small voice.

There's a beat, and then Derek answers, gruffly, "No."

"Are you going to start hating me later?" Stiles has to ask. "Because if that's coming, I'd kind of like to be braced for it."

" _No_ , Stiles. There will be no hating." His tone implies that if Stiles doesn't shut up about it there _will_ be threats of bodily harm.

"That's good," Stiles says with a relieved smile. If Derek is going to start throwing around empty threats, then everything really is okay between them. "So, heat, huh?"

Derek huffs out a breath. "Is there any chance that you'll just shut up and not ask me a million questions about it?"

"No chance at all, buddy," Stiles tells him cheerfully. "So what's up with that heat thing? If Scott went through anything even remotely like this, I would have heard about it. He's constitutionally incapable of not over-sharing."

"It's something alphas experience, and it isn’t heat," Derek says snippily. "Werewolves don't go into heat, and if they did, it would only be females. This—no one really knows why it happens."

"But they must speculate about it," Stiles pushes, because—that's what he does.

"Most werewolves believe it's a check to the alpha's power, a reminder that we're not invincible."

"And—" Stiles prompts.

"Some think it's to promote the bond between an alpha and their mate," Derek says in a tight voice, as if begrudging every word he gives up. "A strong alpha pair can help stabilize a pack."

"But you—"

"I don't have a mate," Derek says flatly.

Stiles can't decide if that's kind of sad or the biggest relief ever, and then something occurs to him. "Hey, wait, does this mean Boyd and I are your mates now? Can you have more than one mate? How would that even work?"

Derek makes an annoyed noise that Stiles is pretty sure translates: _How is this my life?_ "Boyd was simply acting on a beta's instinct to protect his alpha," Derek explains in his patient voice, which isn't very patient at all. "You're human and all of twenty years old and not ready to make promises about forever to anyone. So, no, neither one of you is my mate."

Stiles can't help noticing that Derek isn't saying: _You're not my mate, because I don't want you to be._

"I'd be an awesome mate," Stiles offers, hopefully.

"What part of 'you're human' do you not understand? Humans don't mate, at least not the way werewolves do."

Stiles doesn't need to look at Derek to know his eyebrows are knitted together and he's wearing that infuriatingly stubborn expression of his.

"Okay, fine. Forget about being mates. Twenty-year-old humans do have relationships. I could be your—" Stiles cycles through his word choices—boyfriend, lover, significant other—and rolls his eyes at all of them. Why does talking about this stuff have to sound so stupid? "I could be yours," he says softly.

Derek goes still. "Just like that? Because we slept together once."

Stiles snorts. "Dude. I've had a thing for you since I was sixteen. And don't tell me you couldn't smell it all over me, because I won't believe you."

"You always smell of sex. That's just you."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, that's _you_."

He feels the flex of Derek's muscles, and suddenly he's flat on his back with Derek hovering over him, staring down at him with a pinch between his eyebrows, as if he's trying to figure out Stiles.

Stiles holds his gaze. "I get it, okay? Werewolves mate for life, and most humans don't have that good a track record. But when I'm into someone, I'm _really_ committed. I'd offer historical examples—" Derek grinds his teeth at this, _loudly_. "Yeah, I didn't think you'd want to hear it. Anyway, do you really think I come home from school so often because I love learning about yet more horrible things that shouldn't exist and sustaining multiple head injuries?"

Derek studies him a little longer and then cups Stiles's face in his hands and kisses him.

"Oh, thank God!" Stiles scrambles to get his arms around Derek's neck and kisses back.

Derek hums under his breath as he presses his mouth to Stiles's neck and his chin and both cheeks and then pulls back. "Okay."

Stiles blinks at him. "Okay, what?"

"We can try having a relationship." He slides off the bed and picks up his jeans from the floor and starts to get dressed.

"Really? Then why are you over there? And why are there clothes on your body?"

Derek skims his T-shirt over his head. "I'm assuming you came to get me for a reason."

Stiles sighs heavily. Stupid escapees from the Forbidden Forest.

"Come on." Derek holds out Stiles's jeans to him. "You can tell me about it on the way back to the house."

Stiles grudgingly gets dressed and waits while Derek locks up the cabin. He trudges along at Derek's side, really hoping this whole arachnid threat can be dealt with quickly, so they can get back to having sex, preferably on a non-filthy mattress with actual sheets.

Derek drapes his arm across Stiles's shoulders. After a moment, he says, as if he's admitting something he really shouldn't, "You would make a good mate," and then he adds more sternly, "If you were a werewolf. Which you aren't. You're human and completely free to end this relationship at any time if that's what you want."

Stiles ducks his head and smiles, leaning in close. He is _so_ Derek's mate—because _that's_ what he wants—but for now, he's happy to call it a relationship if that makes Derek feel like he's respecting Stiles's humanness.

They can always work out the semantics later.


End file.
